When You're Gone
by MadeOfWin35
Summary: In which John Watson finally reaches his breaking point after Sherlock's death. Heavy on the angst and warnings for attempted suicide and Sentimental!Sherlock. JOHNLOCK. Complete.


**Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or the lyrics to Avril Lavigne's **_**When You're Gone **_**which inspired this fic.**

When You're Gone

It was an inevitable fate in John Watson's eyes. Sherlock Holmes had given him a reason to live, and now Sherlock was gone, and therefore John's reason to live was gone too. Life was a dull collection of work, sleep, and therapy now. He thought to himself this must have been how Sherlock felt every day he didn't have a case, like his brain was rotting from the inside, like there was no point to his existence.

John knew he would be missed, it would be a small number of people. He considered his sister, Harry, but their relationship had almost always been fraught with difficulty. She could live without her brother to worry over. Mrs. Hudson would be grief-stricken she'd lost another one of her boys, but John trusted she would soldier on. Mrs. Hudson was a tough old bird. There was Lestrade and Molly and Stamford who would all be saddened by his death, but they too could survive without John Watson.

No one was really going to miss him.

Everything has it's time and everything ends.

John was just speeding up a process already in motion.

He wondered briefly what Sherlock would have to say about all this. John was, after all, sitting in the flat they had shared, sitting on Sherlock's bed in fact, wearing Sherlock's bathrobe and slippers. John let out a laugh; mad, he was mad, obviously. Absolutely stark raving mad.

"_Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side," _Sherlock's voice whispered.

"And I'm on the losing side because I cared about you." He opened the box he'd been holding in his lap for the past hour. Inside was a syringe and a little baggy of pills, Sherlock's stash. John wasn't entirely surprised given Sherlock's reaction to Lestrade's fake drugs bust in times past. There weren't very many pills left, but John estimated there was enough for him to overdose on.

He picked up the picture Sherlock had on his nightstand. It was a photo of Sherlock and John taken last Christmas by Mrs. Hudson without the boys' knowledge. They were sharing a laugh together; Sherlock was actually smiling, a smile usually reserved for dead bodies and exciting cases. John's eyes were twinkling with mischief. He was never going to understand this brilliant, beautiful, impossible, perfect man. He decried sentiment as weakness and yet here was a picture of him and John where he'd be sure to see it first thing in the morning.

John shook his head sadly as he poured out the pills. He stared at the pills for a few minutes. "I wish I could be brave, but I can't carry on in a world without you." He kissed the picture frame reverently before swallowing the pills.

"_John! John! John!" He could feel long limbs wrapped around his torso, lifting him up into a sitting position. _

"_Sher-" John tried to speak, but found he couldn't get the words out. _

"_I'm here, John, it's going to be okay. Mrs. Hudson, hurry!" he called. "John, don't leave me. I need you to stay with me!"_

_John smiled. Sherlock never said nice things like that. "You don't need me, Sher," he said, forcing the words out with difficulty._

"_Don't ever say that. You are my friend, my only friend."_

_John opened his eyes slightly to get a better look at him. "You left." _

"_I'm sorry. I won't leave you again."_

"_Promise?"_

"_I promise, John."_

_Then the world went black._

ooo

Mycroft Holmes sat next to John's hospital bed. His fingers steepled together against his chin, much like his brother did when he was deep in thought. He stared in the general direction of the door, knowing it wouldn't be long now.

"_My dear brother, I presume?" Mycroft had answered his mobile to an unknown number; it was his personal, private number and only a hand full of people had it. _

"_Yes," came the terse reply. _

_When no more words were forthcoming Mycroft spoke again. "I presume you had some reason for calling?"_

"_How's London?"_

"_Lovely," Mycroft said with a smile. He heard a noise of irritation on the other line. "London is… rather falling down, my dear brother. Very unwell indeed."_

"_You're supposed to be looking after him!" _

"_I cannot help the actions of a desperate man."_

"_Desperate?"_

"_He is fine for right now; the danger has passed. But I fear the emotional damage may be… more long term."_

"_What's happened?" Mycroft paused. "Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted into the phone._

"_Your John took a handful of ecstasy. _Your_ ecstasy, I might add."_

_There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line. _

"_Mrs. Hudson found him in your room only an hour or so after. He was gotten to rather quickly and I have been informed it is unlikely there will be brain damage."_

"_I need to see him."_

"_Is that wise? You may be seen."_

"_I need to see him," Sherlock repeated._

_Mycroft sighed. "Very well. I shall make the proper arrangements. See you soon, dear brother."_

_ooo_

It was half past midnight when the door finally opened and Sherlock entered. Mycroft didn't say anything as Sherlock walked over to John's bedside. Mycroft noted he looked worn and haggard; the year since his death had aged him greatly. His clothes were of very poor quality, very thin against the cold air of London. His hair had been dyed a light brown and it hadn't been trimmed in quite some time; there was fresh stubble on his chin as well.

"You look like a hobo," Mycroft said, matter-of-factly.

Sherlock ignored this. "How is he?" He sat down in the chair next to his bed.

"He's stable. Physically, he's fine."

"But-?" Sherlock glanced at his brother.

"The emotional damage may be irreparable. He feels he has nothing to live for, and when he wakes you will still be dead."

Sherlock placed his hand on John's own as he looked at him sadly. "I can't lose him," he spoke so softly Mycroft almost didn't catch it.

Mycroft's lips pursed into something like a smile. "You really ought to make a happy announcement once this nasty business is all said and done. Mummy will be so thrilled to hear you've found someone to settle down with."

"Oh, do shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped icily as he continued to study John. There were more worry lines in his face now; he seemed older, and oh so fragile laying there.

"I'll give you a moment alone. A nurse will be around in fifteen minutes so don't take too long."

"Thank you," Sherlock said to Mycroft and his brother waved his hand to show he'd heard.

Sherlock held John's hand. "I know this is hard," he began, his voice rough with emotion. "But I need you to hold on, for me, for us. I need you here when I get back. We'll watch crap telly together, whatever you want to watch, I won't complain. I'll even eat something. Just please, please hold on."

John twitched in his sleep and Sherlock panicked, thinking he was about to wake. But he didn't move again.

"I miss the flat. I miss our adventures together. I know I'm being sentimental and I know it's a weakness. But I don't care." In a gesture many would have been shocked by, Sherlock stood and kissed his doctor's forehead. "You're my heart, John. Please keep beating for me."

_When you're gone/The pieces of my heart are missing you/When you're gone/The face I came to know is missing too/When you're gone_

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